Rain Reflection #2

These days, I love the rain.

My rainbarrels are full, even overflowing today.

I bought my rainbarrels two years ago from http://www.rainbarrelsandmore.com/: 60-gallon recycled food-grade barrels used to ship olives and pickles to the United States. There's a side brass spigot attachment, and at the bottom, I attached a dual-release valve with on/off toggles. If the rainbarrel is almost empty and the water level is below the brass spigot, I can still harvest water from the lower valve.

The lower valve also attaches to a soaker hose that winds through my garden like a black garter snake. I can flip a switch and walk away, and the rainbarrel will water my garden slowly and evenly.

I've been thinking about small acts of conservation for a long time. 20 years ago, a writer friend served me dinner with a folded bandana as a napkin. I loved the idea of cloth napkins--why is it we only see them in the fanciest restaurants?

Ever since then, I've used cloth napkins instead of buying paper ones. Think about it: How much paper waste can one person can diminish with just a small choice like that? My friends and family always feel special when they come over to eat. I might be feeding them chili, but the cloth napkins change everything.

I digress. As usual.

The rainbarrel lid twists off like the top of a jar. Rain enters the top through holes; the holes have aluminum screens to filter bugs, leaves, and debris. Sure, the smaller particles (pollen on the roof) get into the rainbarrell.

Did I mention the obvious? You don't drink water from your rainbarrel (nor do your pets).

People passing the house often stop and ask about the rainbarrels. ("Bootleg whiskey," my husband says.)

What's the point?

Over the past two years, I've harvested at least 3000-4000 gallons of water to use on my gardens. Maybe more. And all the money we've invested in landscaping since moving in? Our plants are flourishing. When we traveled to Rome, we left the soaker hoses on and came home to a verdant spring garden.

P.S. Check out writer what Lisa Samalonis thinks about recycling and writing:
http://lisabsamalonis.blogspot.com/2009/06/recycling-ideas.html

Rain Reflection #1

It's raining today.

The light of the day is dark and my mood sinks.

Then I remember Steve.

I worked with Steve at the Governor's School on the Environment. His enthusiasm for learning, his wild sense of humor, and his expansive physicality left me--a young teacher--in awe. When talking about his travels, he would suddenly lurch into an impression of an elephant: his right hand on the right side of his rib cage was the elephant's ear, while his left shoulder met his nose to be come the elephant's trunk. Noises and movement followed.

Steve taught us how to play dominoes like they do in Costa Rica, slapping the tiles down with frantic speed. When describing something from World War II, he'd tell you that Truman said to Hitler, "DON'T EVEN." (You have to say this out loud to understand the effect.)

Steve taught high school in West Deptford, NJ before he retired--we're not sure, but we think his wife bought him a cabin in Montana. He grew up in Paulsboro, right near WDHS and except for his travels--teaching exchanges in Russia, fly fishing vacations in Montana--he stayed in the same area his entire life. Paulsboro is a tough little town off 295 S: a Sunoco oil refinery emits a tangible smell, home values are often 60% lower than the rest of the state, and young people try to make it through and get to somewhere else. Steve and his 8 siblings were raised by a single mother, and for him, this was a badge of honor, a detail he bragged about, as if every time he mentioned his mother's accomplishments she rose further in his esteem.

I taught with Steve for about six years, and here's my favorite memory.

Rain.

There'd been no rain that spring or summer yet. Now here is was. Torrential rain. The faculty clustered in a group, soaked through our rain gear, trying to decide if we should still hold class out in the field. Steve approached, walking sprightly in his full-length, bright yellow raincoat.

"This is great!" he said. "We need the rain."

I looked at Steve. In that moment, things changed for me.

It's a choice: how to see the world.

Dreary rain?

Necessary rain.

A wonder and a blessing.

Farewells

Some of my earliest memories are of walking with my grandmother, Christine, on the beach in New Jersey. One summer she bought me a butterfly net: small wooden handle, a fine white net. But I never chased butterflies. We walked on the flat, empty beach in the early morning, every morning. By the water's edge, I stared into tidepools, scooping up minnows and sand crabs with the net. Now I could see these elusive creatures up close. Hold them in my hand. Release them safely.

That butterfly net? Might well be one of my favorite things ever. It reminds me of many things: each day, in the same tidepools, new adventures await.

Sometimes I dream of my grandmother, and in the dreams, she is alive, and I am aware that the dream is a vivid gift: seeing her again.

When we say goodbye, who will remind my Wild Writers that they are their writing, that their words map and shape their lives? Who will give them permission to just be themselves? I promise you this: meaningful writing never comes from pleasing a teacher or fulfilling the criteria of an assignment.

So consider: If not for butterflies, how will you use your net? What elusive treasures and dreams will you pursue and capture?

Crowning Achievement

I am afraid of heights.

It is 305 feet from the ground at Ellis Island to the teetering tip of Lady Liberty's touch.

This summer, visitors will once again be able to climb the 12-story, 354 cramped steps to access the crown of the Statue of Liberty.

The crown has been closed since 9/11.

The torch, alas, has been closed since 1916 and will likely remain so.

The New York Times reported that the statue’s architect, Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi, “never intended or designed the Statue of Liberty as something to enter or climb.” And the claustrophobic spiral access to the crown? Only intended for maintenance workers.

According to the New York Post, a 1999 study warned that "if a fire were to start on the pedestal level, the inside of the statue would act like a chimney and smoke would suffocate anyone on the stairs or in the crown."

In his efforts to see the crown reopened, New York's Rep. Anthony Weiner argued that dangerous conditions exist across National Park Service’s holdings.

“It is tight,” he said. “It is cramped. It is hot. It probably isn’t completely safe to have everyone go up, in any numbers, at any time. But the Park Service is full of slightly dangerous things you can do.”

I think fondly of Yellowstone's geysers, of loose rocks on descending trails at the Grand Canyon.

I agree with Weiner: Legitimate concerns abbout safety should not prevent access. The Park Service should simply take appropriate measures to ensure the safety of visitors.

When the crown reopens July 4, only 10 people will access the crown at a time, with a maximum of 30 visitors per hour.

Perhaps the great achievement is this: After years of living with fear and restriction, we are unwilling to accept the forbidding threats of a dangerous world.

They say the statue sways 3 inches in the surrounding 50 mph winds.

So what?

I want to see the 62,000 pounds of her copper exterior hammered to the thickness of 3/32 inch--the width of two pennies. I want to look out the 25 windows of the crown and see the ocean where my great-grandfather arrived.

I have my ticket for October 10.

Salt Lake City Greeting

Arrived in Utah. Walked outside, the sun bright on the Wasatch. I would grab a cab to Melanie's.

"Where have you been?" the taxi driver said to me. "I've been waiting all morning for you!"

Rules for Writers

1. Cultivate a talent for collecting images.

2. Be bold and brave in all areas of your life. Go ahead. Purchase the house with the hi-gloss pink staircase.

3. Cultivate brilliant friends. On her first tour of the house, Kim named my staircase "The Esophagus."

4. Do something else besides write.

Booknotes: Cormac McCarthy's "The Road"

While in Utah recently, I finally read Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I expected to read a few pages; a friend had suggested I look at McCarthy's compression of language.

I picked the book up and never put it down.

The Road is part Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea) and part Dante (The Inferno). Somehow, with very little information and very few pages, I found I cared deeply about what happened with this father and son.

Six-Word Stories

One of my favorite online literary journals, Narrative, features literary puzzlers every week. This week's challenge: Write a six-word short story. Hemingway claimed his favorite piece of writing was a six-word story:

For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

I love the idea of a six-word story, and on my flight to Florida this Wednesday, I tried writing a few. Here are mine:

Anyone there? Toilet paper roll empty.

Vegas sunrise. Arby's coffee. Just married.

Dear Mister President: Will father return?

I do. Separate bathrooms solved everything.

Dial 911. Billy tumble-dried Maggie.

Two blue lines: whose is it?

Note to self: Dispose of gun.

Old flame, Chicago airport, flight cancelled.

French martini. Morning. Who are you?

Above the Tiber

From the top of Castel Sant'Angelo: Rome.
The still and green Tiber River.
Umbrella pines unfurled against the spread of blue sky.